Eurostar English translation
by Zombie Ladybug
Summary: Leaving England wasn't as hard as forgetting it was. AU, SB/RL.
1. Stop and smell the carnations

It rained. For the first time in months, it rained. He woke up to the scent of wed dirt and slight chill bumps on the cutis. He opened his eyes and stared at the white paint that was shedding from the ceiling. It rained, and the rain reminded him of England.

Coffee. Black, strong, sugarless coffee. Yesterday's newspaper in the next chair, as though company. He ran a hand down his face, feeling the stubbles and the deep dark circles under his eyes. The smell of coffee also reminded him of England.

Saint-Dié-des-Vosges was waking up outside his window, opening wide doors and wide eyes to welcome the long awaited rain. But in that small flat on the third floor of a small building, the rain was only gazed at gravely, as if it were a far away memory instead of a concrete reality.

He put his hair up with a rubber band, put on a pair of faded red Converses, and went out to sit on the sidewalk. He felt the water sliding inside his shirt, the hair rising with the wind, the taste of coffee in the back of his throat. Closing his eyes, it was just like being back.

James would have laughed at him.

Two hours later, he was in an old and noisy bus heading to an Arts college, where the newspaper told him he'd find his next rent.

James would definitely have laughed at him.

The style of the college was antique, with dark bricks covered in dead ivy, and the rain that kept growing. Big old trees dropped large drops onto his shoulders. The Music building poured strings and springs, while the Photography building soaked the streets with light.

Painting. Room H. Easels arranged around a small stage, white light, about fourteen degrees warmer than the outside. He took off his coat and hung it on a hook on the wall.

"Glad to see you're already comfortable, Monsieur Black." The low and pleasant voice came from the door. "I asked them to raise the temperature not long ago; it should be stable before class starts."

His interlocutor was about six feet and two inches tall, maybe a bit less, light brown hair that curled about his shoulders and eyes of a strange hue behind black frames. He couldn't have been older than twenty-five.

"Substitute teacher?"

"Remus Lupin, newly-hired." Shake hands, pleasant smile. "You, Monsieur Black, are truly younger than I had supposed."

"Sirius, if you please. And the surprise is mutual."

Not an entirely unpleasant one. Or maybe it was dreadful. It doesn't matter, anyway, for that which must be avoided is mediocrity.

He went back into the room wearing a robe, a dozen of weirdly clothed youngsters waiting. He climbed up the stage, let his robe fall, and the voice of the young teacher shaped his body. He played shy, misadjusted, biting his lips as if nervous to prevent the grin that threatened to take over his face. It was fun playing with other people's minds, sprawled out naked in public view and yet, perfectly shielded.

Maybe living by himself was turning him into a bit of a sociopath.

He let his gaze wonder through the room, stopping at the weirdly colored eyes of the professor. He squinted, angled his head, studying that to whom he was an object of study. He was a kid, he was a lad, not a teacher. Art Teachers are frustrated artists, and Monsieur Lupine wasn't old enough to have had his dreams torn apart yet.

Oh, yes, lupine, for sure.

His shoulder cracked. The rain had dimmed down to a drizzle, a white fog down the street. He liked the smell of ink, of the inks. A girl of stupid features walked in and out of the room every other time, making him want to hit her.

Hm. Him hit her.

Yes, living by himself was turning him into a sociopath.

Not that it made any difference. Over two thirds of the world was but a cancer, rotten and expendable.

Or maybe that was just him.

Anyway.

The low voice of the pseudo-teacher sounded once more, announcing the end of the class. He put on his robe, got down from the stage. The stupidly faced girl smiled an equally stupid smile, thought out as seductive, and stretched her hand.

"Gigi."

"Arguable."

He got dressed, tied the jacket around his hips and put his hair up. He left the building a few Euros richer, with the prospect of returning in a week.

"It pays for my master's degree, Monsieur Sirius. And they're good kids. They amuse me."

"I didn't notice anything relevant, I'm afraid. You, Monsieur Lupin, seem quite out of place in this charade."

"And you, Monsieur Sirius, possess a fascinating mind. Would you be free Tuesday for a drawing lesson?"

"Your class?"

"My class."

"Certainly."


	2. She's so heavy

It was Tuesday, after all. Cloudy.

He woke up before dawn, rested against the windowsill and smoke a cigarette listening to old jazz vinyls. Saint-Dié had shadows and smoke, and sometimes he wondered if he'd really left the island.

He cracked his back, made coffee. He wouldn't go back to sleep now. It was three in the morning, and the cold floor cracked under the bass chords. He ran a hand through his hair, though of cutting it, thought again, gave up. The music calmed him, and the tone of the beats woke him, because music didn't have to make sense.

It was a new day, just like all others.

He spent a few hours, that could have been a few days, among music, coffee and cigarettes. But it was still Tuesday, and the circles under his eyes made them seem lighter. At eight-thirty, he put on a white shirt and the worn red Converses, took his keys and left.

The Arts college was already familiar to him this week. The carnations, the lights, the dark bricks. It was quite odd to walk around there, because it wasn't France, it couldn't be.

He shook his head. Thinking of the past never did him good.

Drawing. Room M. The door was unlocked, the windows open. Monsieur Remus was sitting upon his desk, an old book across his legs and the bare feet dangling out the top. Smell of coffee.

"Dosteyevsky?"

"Nabokov. Good guess."

Russian literature goes along well with the Arts Teacher position, but he still looked far too young and youthful for either.

"I do not know about your story, Monsieur Remus, but I think it can't have been much better than mine."

He had expressive eyes, possibly the only feature in his physiognomy that didn't measure emotions. And they laughed, but they weren't happy.

"I do not know of your story either, Monsieur Sirius, but I do know you definitely have one. Maybe we can compare then, someday."

Today's group worked on facial expressions. Luckily, Sirius could summon whichever emotions in whichever situation, even if he was not sure he had any of them. Maybe yes. Probably not.

"Do you like coffee?"

He was quite interesting. He looked young, but he seemed to have more history than if he was a thousand years old.

"Quite a bit."

It was drizzling on the street now, but it was still warmer than a Londoner summer. The small café, in an ordinary corner of Saint-Dié, played songs from artists he didn't know, but neither did he feel the need to.

He didn't find out much about the young artist that afternoon. He only knew that he was from Nice, that he liked rain and that he had seven ridges on the skin of the roof of his mouth.

It was an almost ordinary Tuesday, but the Wednesday that followed had prospects of being extraordinary.


End file.
